


Breathe

by EnglishPlant



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Bruce is angsty, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Slow Build, clark just wants to help, i'll post a note, like if y'all want full relationship, really slow build, wait until a later chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-27 20:52:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14433852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglishPlant/pseuds/EnglishPlant
Summary: Bruce is starting to crack, he's holding it together, barely, but for how long?Doesn't take place in a specific universe//WIP





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hope to update somewhat regularly. 
> 
> Edit: I just joined AO3, working out tagging and all of that lovely stuff
> 
> \- 7/3/18 - 
> 
> We'll be getting to some "overt" flirting and whatnot pretty quick (past chapter 6). I have a lovely plan for this "party" mentioned in chapter 5.

Breathe deeply. Allow the lungs to swell, stomach pushing out as air fills the lungs. Hold the air a moment, pause, exhale. Let the thoughts rush down and out with the air as it leaves the lungs. Repeat. 

Breathe in. 

Breathe out. 

Somewhere in the manor a grandfather clock chimed. Eyes flickered beneath closed lids. He counted one, two, three, four. Four in the morning. He needed to be up in three hours. Seven was late for him, but he allowed himself small changes to the routine when circumstances dictated he should. 

Current circumstance was his sleep. The lack of, which is why Bruce lay in bed, silently counting his breaths. This trick, learned from Alfred when he was much younger and plagued with nightmares, had always worked. Now he of course knew Alfred had simply been teaching him how to meditate, trusting that a child would drift off to sleep, which he had. As a child. As an adult, he found it harder and harder to sleep. He found himself slipping into a meditative state. This allowed him to rest, but was not exactly compatible with true sleep. 

He was too warm. Kicking off the top blanket he shifted beneath the cotton sheets. The cool air of the bedroom rushed inward, caressing his skin. Now he was too cold. It was all he could do to not groan in frustration. Forcing himself to to lie still, Bruce counted five more breaths. With this motion he discovered he was more tense than he should have been. By forcibly tensing each group of muscle and letting go, he found his body start to relax. 

What good was a relaxed body when the mind raced? Not much, Bruce mused. He counted five more breaths. He was so tired. His eyelids felt heavy, they wouldn’t open if he tried. Sleep dragged at his limbs, and yet. . .As soon as he started to drift, releasing control to his subconscious, they were waiting. 

The itinerary for the following day, the list of unfinished tasks both Bruce and Batman had to attend too. The work that needed to be started. His failures. His faults. Every minute detail of his life brought to the surface, disassembled and brought together in baffling ways. 

He sighed softly. 

They were particularly bad tonight. 

The Joker chased him through the subway, his home, the batcave, ending at the top of Wayne tower where he taunted him before throwing himself off the top of the skyscraper, simply for the hell of it. 

As Bruce, now Batman, followed him off the top the scenery changed and he plummeted through the freezing rain, ice pellets stinging his cheeks and chin. A layer of snow covered the ground. Crimson blood marred the white landscape. He had to get to it, but as he approached he felt himself fall through the snow. His physical body jolting from the anticipation of impact, quickly lulled back to the recesses of sleep. He fell through whiteness, landing on the ground in a heap of limbs and cloak. 

He was running now, surrounded by remnants, fragments of his life. Tattered books, broken machinery, a family photo with the faces blacked out. The ground around his feet lurched sickeningly upwards, trying to ensnare him in the mire. He stumbled, fell, picked himself up again and kept running. 

Turning to see who was pursuing him, Bruce struggled to see. A fog had clouded his vision and he couldn’t tell if he was looking one meter behind him or five kilometers. It was gaining on him. Feeling a new sense of urgency Bruce focused his gaze forward. His legs slowed, muscles fighting him. He was running in slow motion. 

Out of time. 

Gasping for breath he awoke, shivering. 

Deep in the manor an antique grandfather clock chimed. 

He sat up a moment, the cold air rushing over his skin. His chest constricted. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. 

Stop. Please. Just Stop. Do not panic. Stop. You are in control. Pause. 

Breathe in. 

Breathe out. 

Five seconds in. Hold. Five seconds out. 

He calmed, letting out a small breath in a puff of air. 

What was wrong with him? He couldn’t think. Reaching out his hand sought the cellphone on the nightstand. The light from the screen was blinding in the near complete darkness of the bedroom. 

Where was the messaging app? 

There. 

His fingers sought it out of their own accord. Neurons firing as his mind numbly reacted to muscle memory. 

Clark. 

Are you awake? 

Sent 5:17 am. 

Nevermind. 

5:18 am.


	2. Clark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark receives a worrisome message.

It wasn’t that he needed sleep per se. In fact, he could go quite a few earth rotations before feeling mentally exhausted enough that he needed to lie down. On the farm, his parents were up at five o’clock each morning, and that suited him just fine. Even now, having lived in the city for several years he couldn’t shake the habit. 

He liked the early mornings. The cool air, the soft glow in the sky as the sunrise blossomed over the horizon. In a city that claimed to never sleep, there was a serene stillness in the early hours. 

Clark woke without the aid of an alarm, stretching as he stood, he moved from the bedroom to the bathroom. Stripping down, he got in the shower before turning the water on. He didn't seem to notice the initial icy blast, but as the water grew warm he felt his body wake up. Stretching contentedly he let the warm water run down his body, watching the steam rise. 

Dressing for work he spent some time debating which tie to choose, the navy blue with the red and white pinstripe, or the red with the white and navy pinstripe? He elected for the blue, feeling it suited his personality better, and went into the kitchen. 

Sipping on a cup of coffee, he checked his phone, planning on checking the news before heading into work. He was startled to find two messages from Bruce. 

A message outside of work was rather rare, two in a row, unheard of. He read the messages with a frown on his face: Are you awake? Shortly after, Nevermind. Wondering if everything was all right, he sent back: I’m awake. Is something wrong? 

He waited rather anxiously for a reply. A minute passed, then two. Fearing the worst, Clark was deciding how soon was too soon to call when Bruce’s reply came through. 

No. 

Clark stared at the screen a minute. How was he supposed to respond to that? Are you okay? He sent back. 

Moments later: I am fine. I got what I needed. 

What were you looking for? Clark replied. 

It is no longer important. Have a nice day. 

It was a clear dismissal. Clark frowned. Hoping he wouldn’t be annoying Bruce, but deciding he needed to lighten up, Clark sent a smiling emoji back before closing the messaging app. 

He sat still a moment, staring unseeingly ahead, wondering what Bruce had needed him for. Even by Bruce’s standards the texts were curt. 

Clark shook his head, he was most likely worried over nothing. He didn’t truly know why he was this concerned to begin with. If Bruce had texted him any other time of the day he would have just accepted it and move on, but something about the early morning nagged at him. He shook his head. 

Clark glanced at the clock. If he left now he could pick up coffee for himself and Lois, and still make it to work a bit early. He got up, slipping his phone into his pocket, pushing thoughts of Bruce out of his mind.


	3. Bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce receives an invitation to lunch.

Sunlight reflected through clean glass onto pristine floors. A few dust particles spun lazily in the gentle air currents created by the air-conditioning. His office was quiet. Though Bruce had little reason to use his office at Wayne Enterprises - after all he spent much of his time travelling - today he sought refuge in bureaucracy. 

With orders not to be disturbed, he had been holed up all day working on various projects, though none seemed to be quite finished. Bruce would begin working and then be reminded of an addition that needed to be made to another file, and would get distracted. Other times he found himself creating an email only to stare rather listlessly at the page before moving onto another matter. 

Now, at five o’clock, as most of the office workers were leaving for the day, he stood at the window, looking out at the city below. From nearly a hundred stories up his city looked almost peaceful. He tracked the progress of a taxi as it wove in and out of the heavy traffic. It turned a corner and was lost from sight. 

As a cloud moved over the sun he felt a slight chill as the room fell into shadow. Turning away from the window and crossing back to his desk Bruce stared down at his laptop. 

He rubbed a tired eye. 

Sitting back down he resigned himself to at least finish going over this proposal before heading back for the evening. The prospect of returning home and changing into the batsuit revived him a bit, and he made it through several paragraphs before he found himself reading the sentence over and over again. 

With a small frown he went back to the beginning of the paragraph. As he read through he found he had lost track yet again. Elbows resting on the desk he put his head in his hands. 

His phone rang. Sighing Bruce checked the caller-ID. Clark. Wondering what he wanted he answered. 

“This is Bruce Wayne,” He scrubbed his face with a hand. 

“I would be worried if it wasn’t, considering this is his phone,” Clark replied, a smile evident in his voice. 

“What do you want, Clark?” Bruce sighed. 

Clark was silent a moment, “We just haven’t talked in awhile, that’s all.” 

It was true. The two had struck up a tentative friendship, formed through working together and Diana’s unceasing efforts to get them to be more like a team both on the job and off. The two got along surprisingly well, for the most part. 

The last few weeks however, Bruce had grown rather distant. He hadn’t reached out, though as Clark waited for Bruce to respond he realized he could have just as easily tried to set up a phone call or lunch. The thought hadn’t really crossed his mind. Bruce made it quite clear he didn’t need anyone, and the last thing Clark wanted to do was alienate him by forcing a friendship. 

The text in the morning had changed that. 

“I’ve been busy, you know how it is,” Bruce said. 

“I do. Which is why I wanted to check in.” 

“Doing fine. How are you?” Bruce asked. He got up and walked back to the window, quietly listening as Clark filled him in on a series of articles he was currently working on. 

“Sounds interesting, I’ll look for them in the paper,” Bruce turned away from the window, slipping one hand into a pocket, he relaxed his posture slightly. Clark’s voice had a rather calming effect on him, to talk about the mundane was a welcome change. 

“Diana and I are going to get lunch this weekend, would you like to come?” Clark asked lightly. 

“I wouldn’t want to intrude-” 

“You won’t be, she’s the one that suggested inviting you,” Clark pressed. 

Bruce debated hanging up. He sighed, “I’ll be there.” 

“Great, I’ll text you the details,” Clark said goodbye and hung up. 

Bruce stood frozen a moment. As the dial tone filled his ear he moved the phone away, ending the call. 

The cloud covering the sun moved on, and gentle sunlight filtered through the window and onto his back.


	4. Clark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He went too far. Clark knew it immediately. Bruce plastered that fake smile of his on his face, posture relaxing as he put up his playboy billionaire persona as a defense.

“I’m worried about him,” Clark said as he took a sip of water. 

“Is it a different worry, or the same?” Diana quipped, pulling her hair into a low ponytail. Flipping the hair over her shoulder, the sheer weight of her hair dragged the ponytail from the side to the middle of her head. The rubber band tried valiantly to hang on, but soon fell to the ground. 

Clark watched in amusement as he gestured, “you lost. . .” 

Diana quirked an eyebrow, then seeing what had happened she sighed, and scooped up the defeated ponytail holder and slipped it into her purse. 

“As you were saying?” She asked delicately, taking a drink of her water. 

Clark sighed, he removed his glasses, trying to clean the smudged lens with his shirt, succeeding in only spreading whatever was on the lens around further. In much the same manner as Diana with her ponytail, he resigned himself to smudged glasses and put them back on. 

“I told you about the text, correct?” He asked. 

“I think you are,” Diana fished for the right phrase, “Making a mountain out of a molehill.” 

“I don’t think so. I’ve been keeping in touch with him the last few days and he just seems. . . tired,” Clark watched a waitress bring an order of food to a nearby table before his eyes flicked back to Diana. 

“He is only human. They get tired,” Diana replied. 

“But Bruce?” Clark persisted. 

“Especially Bruce,” Diana laughed, “You know how he is.” 

Clark frowned. 

“Though there may be something to what you say,” as she replied, she plucked a container of jelly from the small container on the table, examining the tiny packaging before putting it back with this others, “Either way he shall be here soon, and we will get to the bottom of this.” 

Clark looked over at the door as the bells above it chimed politely, informing the staff of customers. 

He watched as Bruce nodded to the greeter, exchanging words - he was meeting friends and didn’t need to be seated. This conversation, unnoticed by all in the café, was heard in perfect detail by Clark. He ordinarily tried not to listen in, super-hearing was both a blessing and curse, but he was focused on Bruce. 

As Bruce winded his way through the tables, Clark had eyes only for him. 

Did he always walk that stiffly? The bruise on his cheek was barely noticeable with the makeup he was wearing - that injury must have been sustained on a patrol. Clark found himself scanning Bruce’s face for other injuries. He found none, though the dark circles under Bruce’s eyes were quite prominent. He wasn’t sleeping, was he? 

“Afternoon,” was Bruce’s greeting. He didn’t seem to notice Clark’s stare. He sat facing Clark, on the other side of Diana. 

“You are late,” Diana teased, pursing her lips into a little smile. 

“I told you I would be,” he picked up a menu, “Have you ordered yet?” 

“We were waiting for you,” Clark said, looking at the other menu. 

A small waitress with a bubble-gum pink smile and a green pen took their order, assured the three she’d have their food right out for them, and she’d get another round of drinks. 

“So what is this about?” Bruce asked, leaning back in his chair, a forearm rested casually on the table. 

“We are not allowed to invite you to lunch?” Diana replied. 

“Small stomachs.” 

Clark winced inwardly at Bruce’s dig at the fact neither he nor Diana technically needed to eat. He had hoped Bruce wouldn’t put it together, but of course, he did. 

Diana thanked the waitress as more drinks and a pitcher of lemon water was set on the table for them, she poured herself a glass offering a casual, “Clark is worried about you.” 

“Oh are you?” Bruce looked at Clark, the slightly quirked eyebrow, head tilt, chin jutted up slightly were all tell-tale signs of the ‘do we need to have another conversation about the fact that not all humans are excessively fragile?’ expression. 

Clark nudged Diana’s leg under the table in response, “No more than usual,” he offered a rueful smile. 

Clark was spared further conversation on the matter as the waitress came back with their food. He watched as Bruce flashed the young woman an irresistible smile, and the subsequent blush that spread on the waitress’ cheeks. 

Clark looked away. 

They chatted amicably about small things, Clark’s stories, Diana’s exhibit at the museum, the latest tabloid gossip on Bruce Wayne. . . 

Eventually, Diana put some money down on the table, informing them her lunch break was just about over, giving a smile she wished them both a good day and left. 

Clark felt Bruce’s eyes on him, he pretended not to notice, moving a piece of red onion to the side of his salad. Silence stretched between the two, wishing he didn’t feel the need to break it, Clark looked up at Bruce, a question on his lips as the waitress came up with the bill. 

“Will it be separate today, gentlemen?” She asked. 

“I’ve got it,” Bruce pulled out his wallet, handing her a bill and instructing her to keep the change, his piercing gaze still fixed on Clark. 

Clark fought the urge to squirm. 

“Any plans after this?” Bruce asked. 

“I should be getting back to work,” Clark replied. 

“Let me drive you back,” something about the way Bruce said it left no room for argument. 

As Bruce got behind the wheel of his car of the day, he hardly waited for Clark to put his seatbelt on before pulling out into traffic. 

“So you’re worried about me.” 

It was a statement, not a question. 

Clark refused to be intimidated by Bruce’s act, “You don’t look well, Bruce.” 

He watched as Bruce’s hands tightened briefly around the wheel, spaces between his knuckles turning white briefly before his grip relaxed. 

“Is it about the text?” Bruce asked flatly. 

Clark looked at him a minute.

“Well?” 

“You seem tired, that’s all,” Clark’s voice was gentle as he switched topics, knowing Bruce had pieced it together. 

Bruce sighed, “I told you, it was nothing.” 

“If it was nothing, why don’t you tell me what it was?” Clark asked. 

He could see Bruce was upset, hear it in his voice, see it in his body language. He was hiding something, that was certain. At his question he watched as Bruce took in a sharper than normal breath, the rhythm of his heartbeat changing momentarily before Bruce forced himself to relax. 

“Just tell me,” Clark persisted. 

A muscle in Bruce’s jaw twitched, “You are making that text a far bigger deal than it needs to be. Stop blowing things out of proportion.” 

“Am I really? You seem awfully upset.” 

He went too far. Clark knew it immediately. Bruce plastered that fake smile of his on his face, posture relaxing as he put up his playboy billionaire persona as a defense. 

“It’s adorable how concerned you are Clark, really. Trying to get an intimate exposé?” 

“Knock if off Bruce,” Clark sighed, “I know you too well.” 

A ‘that’s what I’m afraid of’ hung in the air between them as Bruce pulled up to the curb in front of The Planet. 

“I’ll see you around Clark.” 

Clark looked at him a moment, worry clear on his face. Hoping he hadn’t blown it, Clark got out of the car, watching as Bruce merged back into traffic and sped away.


	5. Bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bruce falls off a roof and gets a rather unfortunate reminder

Damn him. Damn him. Trying to insert himself into his life and take pity on the poor human. No, Clark wasn’t like that. As much as Bruce wanted to lash out at Clark, he was simply trying to help him. 

The water was cool on his face. Bruce straightened, grabbing a hand towel to get the excess off his face. He looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. A pair of tired eyes stared back. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Clark was concerned. He didn’t exactly look the picture of health at the moment. 

Bruce tilted his head to the side, definitely needed to shave. The dark circles under his eyes weren’t doing him any favors either. The bruising on his cheek had gone down considerably, which was a good sign. Exiting the bathroom Bruce resolved to do better. 

Fighting back a yawn as he walked down the hall his thoughts drifted back to the lunch meeting. Clark had been concerned about him, more so than normal, and Bruce couldn’t let Clark worry about him. He wouldn’t let him. 

As he went down the rickety elevator to the batcave, Bruce felt himself relax. He had work to do. There would be time later to assure Clark all was well. For now he would lose himself in casework. 

Standing on the roof, overlooking the city Bruce tracked the progress of a helicopter as it whirred loudly through the night air, drowning out the gentle hum of the city. The air was still, moon shining dimly through wispy clouds. 

He breathed slowly. Bruce stepped off the ledge and fell. The air rushed around him. The material of his cape billowed out, catching a current. He grabbed his grappling hook, firing it at a building. Bruce shot back up. Preparing to land he realized the hook had attached at an odd angle. Judging by his current trajectory he wouldn’t make it to the roof. Rather than panic he tried to think of a solution. He could rappel off the building and try again, or try and catch the windowsill - too late. He hit the building. The force of it knocked the air from his lungs. 

Bruce gasped. Letting go of the grappling hook he fell, crashing several meters into a dumpster. He lay there a moment, stunned. As his mind ran through possible reasons of how this chain of events could happen Bruce climbed out of the dumpster. He felt sore. Tired. 

He needed sleep. 

This was getting out of hand. 

Bruce barely had energy to wash the smell of garbage from himself before he collapsed into bed. He had been a bit brusque with Alfred, but he wasn’t in the mood for a lecture on taking care of himself. 

As soon as his head hit the pillow he was asleep. 

When he awoke sunlight was streaming in through the tall windows. Bruce frowned a bit, throwing an arm over his eyes, displeased at the light for two reasons. One, that it was morning, and two, with the light being that bright he must have slept in. 

“Good morning master Bruce,” Alfred’s accented voice followed the delicious smell of bacon and eggs. 

“Alfred?” Bruce sat up, looking over at the door to see his butler standing there with a tray of food. Not for the first time Bruce was glad for Alfred’s impeccable timing. 

“I was just going to wake you, sir,” Alfred brought the tray over to him, making sure he had begun to eat before moving around the room to put what few possessions were out of place back where they belonged. 

Bruce thanked him as he ate. He set the tray aside and stretched a bit, his back twinged a bit. That fall last night had not been kind to him. He was musing how best to remedy that situation when he realized Alfred was talking to him. 

“What?” 

“I’m merely suggesting that you take a break this weekend master Bruce. You seem to be quiet tired as of late,” Alfred scolded as he hung several shirts back in Bruce’s wardrobe. 

“You know I can’t do that Alfred,” Bruce swung his legs out of bed, standing. 

“At least spend some time finalizing the plans for the soiree. The florist has called again, as has the catering service.” 

 

Bruce groaned. The party.


	6. Clark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clark discovers something is wrong.

He was in the midst of trying to come up with a headline that did not allege how guilty Lexcorp was in the ongoing lawsuit against a much smaller company, but Clark was finding it a little difficult to check his bias. Settling for: Lawsuit Continues in Stolen Technology Case, he closed the lid of his laptop. 

He knew damn well what Luthor was up to, but he lacked concrete evidence, at least, evidence he could obtain legally. Lois had offered to help, but she was off on another assignment, and wouldn’t be back for a few days. 

Clark sighed. He leaned back in his chair before placing his hands on the desk and pushing back. The chair rolled a bit before snagging on a lump of carpeting. He got up and walked to the window, looking out at the city. 

His thoughts drifted as he looked down at the street. He could go snooping around Lexcorp, but breaking and entering wasn’t necessarily his go to, not to mention once he did get in, he didn’t know where to start. He was an investigative reporter, not a detective. 

Detective. 

A small smile spread across his lips. 

 

“What exactly am I looking for?” Batman’s voice was low as he made sure the computer hacking device he needed was securely fastened to his utility belt. 

“Evidence-” 

“No shit.” 

“I wasn’t done,” Superman chided. He waited until Batman was looking at him before continuing, “Something Clark Kent could find legally.” 

Batman scoffed, Superman could imagine Bruce rolling his eyes behind the opaque lenses of his hood. 

“That could be difficult, what with a corporation like this,” Batman said. 

“Maybe someone who has information, someone who’d flip,” Superman suggested. 

Batman asked if Superman was implying they apply pressure to people just trying to do their job. Clark fell for the bait, or at least, he pretended too. He enjoyed the banter as he pulled off an air vent and they entered the building. Always over prepared, Bruce had memorized the layout of the building, and so he lead the way to a section of offices he was sure evidence could be found. Pulling off the air vent cover he scanned the room for cameras, “Left corner, it’s focused on the door,” he warned before dropping down. Clark followed, wondering not for the first time how someone of Bruce’s size managed to move so quietly. 

“Keep watch,” Batman instructed as he booted up a computer. He sat at the desk, fingers already typing. 

Superman watched for a moment, fighting a smile. He tried to imagine Bruce, as Batman, working a desk job. It was a bit juvenile, but the idea of the Bat sitting at a desk with a gaudy necktie added to the batsuit, hunched over a computer was quite amusing. 

Clark turned his attention back to the door. He wasn’t too worried. X-ray vision told him the security guard was still a floor below them, and he had no reason to suspect anyone had broken in. 

“Found something,” Batman growled. 

Clark’s lips had begun to form ‘who’ when Batman interrupted again. 

“Not here,” he pulled the USB from the port, exiting out of the files and shutting the computer back down. 

The wind had picked up outside, and the clouds foretold of a coming storm. Bruce handed him the USB, cape billowing dramatically behind him. Clark wondered if he purposely staged that, as his own cape pressed against his legs and back. 

“A junior engineer obtained the stolen information before passing it onto her superiors,” Batman said. 

Clark pocketed the USB, he nodded, thanking him. 

True to form, Bruce brushed off the thanks, moving as if to leave. 

“Wait,” Clark implored.

He watched as Batman froze, the wind picked up, thunder rumbled overhead. 

“Make it quick, it’s going to rain,” Bruce said, voice still disguised as Batman. 

“We need to talk.” 

He could hear the quiet scoff Bruce gave, “No, you’re trying to involve yourself in something that doesn’t concern you.” 

“So there is a problem,” Clark pressed. 

“Even if there was, there’s nothing you could do to fix it.” 

The reply was curt as he stepped up to the ledge of the roof. Superman called for him to wait, moving forward as if to grab his arm, but Batman jumped off the roof before he could catch him. 

Clark watched him float down to the ground. He could pursue him, but it wouldn’t do any good. He watched as Batman ran, disappearing into the darkness as the first few drops of rain began to fall. 

“What are you so worried I’ll see?” Clark murmured.


	7. Bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is starting to realize something.

He had a streak for vanity. A small streak, but a streak nonetheless. He was honest about it at the very least. It usually expressed itself in expensive Italian suits and a few watches. 

Despite this, Bruce did not spend excessive amounts of time on his appearance. He was wealthy, so of course he dressed nicely. His physique could be attributed to the need for Batman to be in top condition. 

People magazine had voted him one of the hottest bachelors of the year for several years in a row, but that wasn’t vanity, that was fact. He was attractive, he knew that, but Bruce typically avoided mirrors. Especially when he took his clothes off. When Bruce Wayne had sex he did so with the lights off. 

Now, as he stood in front of the mirror, peeling off the lightweight layer of armor he wore beneath the Batsuit, his eyes stayed focused on his image.  
He used to think his mind was like his body. It had been hurt, but it had healed. Now, as his eyes roved over the layers of scarring, Bruce felt his mind was more like his body. Still whole, but not the same. 

He turned slightly, fingers tracing over the latest mark that would be permanently etched into his skin. The scar tissue was slightly raised, still pink. It would fade with time, matching the pale scars that surrounded it. 

Bruce knew he shouldn’t focus on it, but a part of his mind had other ideas. 

 

He had thought he was going to die. The blade had been sharp and thin, cutting easily though his armor and sliding between two ribs. What little air remained in his lungs left him in an aborted gasp. 

The assassin had assumed him soon to be dead, and left. He was cold. Alone. 

So goddamned alone. 

Whose fault was that? 

Whose fault. 

Alone. 

The way he wanted to be. 

He didn’t realize he was crying until a hot tear slid down his cheek. Bruce started. Enough with the pity party. He finished stripping, leaving the suit on the floor, and going into the bathroom. 

He stepped into the shower. He turned on the water. The icy blast was a shock to his system. It woke him up, dragging him from the depths of his mind to focus on the layer of goosebumps that had broken out on his skin. Showering hurriedly, he stepped out, grabbing a towel and drying off. 

He had work to do. 

Grabbing his laptop got down to business: replying to emails, checking the news, the stock market, and so on. He finalized the invite list for the party and emailed it to his secretary to double-check, replied to her email about having a gluten-free option for the menu, and okayed the use of a jazz band instead of a string quartet. 

The grandfather clock chiming was what finally broke his concentration. It rang out six times, echoing in the otherwise quiet manor. Bruce sat there confused a moment, it couldn’t be that time. He got back at three, showered, and then -- he supposed a few hours could have passed. Sighing, Bruce saved the work on his laptop and closed it down. 

Standing, he stretched rather languidly before walking over to his bed. His phone on bedside table buzzed two times, screen lighting up as a text message came through. 

Clark. 

He opened the message, blue eyes scanned the words quickly, he finished reading and called Clark. 

“What’s your theory?” 

“Bruce?” Clark sounded surprised to hear him. 

Bruce asked Clark who else he thought it might be, earning a laugh in response. A faint smile spread across Bruce’s lips at the laugh. He could picture Clark sitting at the kitchen table that doubled as a desk in his small apartment, probably drinking a cup of coffee - even though he didn’t need it. It was a weekend, that meant Clark was wearing a plaid shirt of some kind, the sleeves rolled up. 

“So what are you doing up so early?” Clark was asking. His voice snapped Bruce’s thoughts back. 

“Would you believe me if I said I actually didn’t sleep last night?” Bruce found himself admitting, allowing a sheepish tone to creep into his voice. 

“Bruce-” 

“Relax Clark, I was working.” Bruce sat down on the edge of the bed, watching as the sun crept slowly above the horizon. 

“I can call later.” 

“Stay on the line, I want to hear your theory.”


	8. Clark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce had that effect on people - when he wanted too. It was hard not to fall for him. Bruce was intelligent, a philanthropist, daring, charming, attractive. . . Clark found himself thinking how well Bruce’s shirt complemented his eyes, pale blue, a striking color, not unlike the sky on a clear winter day.

Clark hadn’t expected Bruce to be awake this early on a weekend, let alone want to hear his theory, or ask him about his week. Clark found himself relaying everything to the other man: the latest office drama, the new coffee shop Lois had discovered and was in love with, how Ma and Pa Kent were doing, and the stray cat he had been feeding finally let him pet it. 

They were friends. Of course Clark shouldn’t have been surprised Bruce would want to know how he was doing; but all the same, Bruce had been out of sorts lately. Well, more than he usually was. 

“You’re in a good mood this morning,” Clark said, hoping to segue into how Bruce was feeling. 

“I got a lot of work done last night,” Bruce replied easily. 

Clark stood, taking his coffee cup to the sink and setting it alongside the others. Cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear, he began washing the dishes. Clark hummed in response, setting a clean cup on the counter to be dried. 

There was a brief moment of static as Bruce sighed. 

Clark fought back a smile, imagining Bruce bringing a hand to his forehead, rubbing a temple in exasperation. Clark knew Bruce detested talking about himself. What little he teased out of him usually revolved around the cases Batman was working. His silence forced Bruce to talk. 

“I know you’ve been worried about me,” Bruce said hesitantly. 

Clark stayed silent. 

“I’m fine.” There was a note of finality in Bruce’s voice, signalling that this part of the conversation was over. 

“Bruce,” Clark tried, setting down the plate he was washing, drying his hand and picking the cellphone off his shoulder, straightening. 

“What can I say that will make you believe me?” Bruce sounded frustrated. 

“Something that isn’t a lie?” Clark asked softly. 

“Then I’ll prove it,” Bruce said tersely and hung up.   
Clark set the phone down, mulling the conversation over. He knew Bruce wasn’t angry, not truly. This usually happened whenever Clark tried to get what others deemed as too close. Diana often chastised him for continuing to press, but her relationship with Bruce was different. 

Clark continued to wash dishes. He grabbed a towel to dry the dishes off. Why was his relationship with Bruce different? 

He was still muddling over the possible answers to this question hours later. In an effort to distract himself, he turned the television on. The channel already set to a news station, Clark was going to change it when he saw Bruce’s picture flash on the screen. 

“-and we’re coming to you live with an interview with the primary investor of the new children’s hospital, Bruce Wayne.” 

The camera panned back to reveal Bruce sitting casually on a stool next to the newscaster. He wore a dark gray turtleneck, a pair of black jeans, fashionable boots, and that trademark playboy billionaire smile. Clark quickly took this in, studying Bruce’s posture, searching for some sign, of what he didn’t quite know. 

“Tell us, Mr. Wayne, why keep your investment in the project hidden for so long?” 

“Well you see-” Bruce began, he tipped his head slightly when he spoke, blue eyes trained on the reporter as he replied. 

The reporter was loving every minute of it. She leaned forward on her stool, knees facing Bruce, though it forced her to turn slightly away from the camera. She hung onto his every word. Bruce had that effect on people - when he wanted too. It was hard not to fall for him. Bruce was intelligent, a philanthropist, daring, charming, attractive. . . Clark found himself thinking how well Bruce’s shirt complemented his eyes, pale blue, a striking color, not unlike the sky on a clear winter day. 

Clark focused back on the interview, all of that was secondary to his primary concern. With the public persona of Bruce Wayne on, it was difficult for Clark to ascertain if their earlier conversation was a true indication of how Bruce was truly feeling. 

On screen he seemed put together, but there seemed to be a tiredness lurking behind the brilliant smile. He seemed almost too stiff, as if he didn’t want to be on camera. As if he was slipping. 

“Thank you for your time Mr. Wayne.” The interview ended, and the camera switched to a reporter out in the field. 

Clark sat back against the couch, thoughts far from the current news report.


	9. Bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A call would do.

He felt fine. In fact, Bruce felt better now than he had in months. Ducking under the fist that was sent flying at his head, he moved in low, punching his attacker in the chest twice, before giving an uppercut to the jaw that sent the street-thug to the ground. 

Turning, he couldn’t help the satisfied smirk that crept onto his lips. 

“Is the freak smiling?” A thug stammered out, his grip on a baseball bat so tight his knuckles were white. 

The smile vanished, so did any sign of consciousness from the goon. 

Bruce heard the click of the gun and dove. The first bullet missed, the second clipped his shoulder as Batman got back on his feet. The body armor protected him from the worst of it. 

Throwing a batarang with uncanny accuracy, it struck the man’s hand. He dropped the gun. He stared at Batman in horror. 

“Your boss. Where is he?” 

The terrified man stammered an answer. 

Bruce knew he wasn’t lying. He also knew he wouldn’t be followed. 

The night air had taken on a definite chill, the humidity from the day had dropped, and by morning a layer of fog would roll in from off the sea. 

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs before he jumped from the window, cape stiffening as he glided to the ground, landing unhurt. His shoulder throbbed a bit from the wound, but it would soon turn to a dull ache and fade. 

Batman had other things to focus on. 

Apparently so did Bruce Wayne. 

As he went from rooftop to rooftop, he kept replaying the events from earlier in the day over in his mind. 

He had been more productive that morning than he had been in nearly a full week at the office. Admittedly his conversation with Clark hadn’t gone quite as he had planned, but they had still talked. 

Bruce realized he liked talking to Clark, even if he kept trying to ask him personal questions. Usually he was able to push people away, but Clark persisted. 

Clark. 

He should call. Maybe he could put an end to Clark’s mothering. Prove how well he was doing. Better yet, he could visit. Show Clark in person that all his worry was for nothing. That was a little too much. A call would do. 

He pulled out his phone, feeling a little surge of energy. 

It rang, once, twice. 

“Hello?” 

“Clark.”


	10. Clark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark begins to see a crack in Bruce's resolve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for leaving comments on this fic; you are what keeps me writing. I'm so sorry for the long wait between chapters, between work and university I'm swamped. Thankfully, the semester will be over soon; I hope to post more regularly this summer! Thank you all <3

He was walking down the street when his phone rang. Fishing it out of his coat pocket, he barely glanced at the caller ID before answering. 

“Clark.” 

“Bruce?” he responded, a hint of amusement tinged the reply. 

“I didn’t like where we left our last conversation,” there was a note of hesitation in his voice. 

Clark asked why that was, ducking under the awning of a nearby building to talk, leaning against the brick. 

“I know I’ve been...Well, I know you’re just trying to help.” 

Clark supposed that would be as much of an apology he could get out of Bruce. He paused a moment, letting the words sink in. He flashed a friendly smile at a young woman who jogged by with a german shepherd. The dog woofed, tail wagging as it easily kept pace with its human. Clark watched them idly until they turned a corner, “Do you want to talk about it face-to-face?” 

“Not particularly,” Bruce deflected. 

Clark cursed himself silently for making Bruce close himself off again. It was just difficult for him to know that Bruce was hurting in some way and wouldn’t let Clark help - let him see. 

“Sorry,” he found himself apologizing, “Maybe-” 

“You don’t have to apologize,” Bruce cut him off. 

Faint sounds trickled in through the receiver, augmented by Clark’s hearing. The sound of coffee percolating, soft clicks of a keyboard being used, the tell-tale squeak of the old office chair Bruce insisted on keeping in the cave all created an image of Bruce sitting in front of his computer, no doubt getting ready to drink his fifth cup of coffee. 

Clark fell silent, hoping for once that Bruce would fill it. 

The reply came after a pause so long Clark had begun to think Bruce was going to hang up, “I’ve been tired lately. It’s difficult to admit, but it’s been clouding my judgement.” 

Clark wasn’t expecting that; he felt his heart nearly skip a beat at the admission. Bruce never admitted to that. He prided himself on an iron will. Clark held the breath he didn’t technically need, not trusting himself to speak at such a moment. 

“I haven’t meant to worry you,” Bruce’s voice had dropped a little lower. 

Clark was dreaming. He had to be; but no - he heard the hesitation in Bruce’s voice, the sincerity in the words. Could it be Bruce was finally letting his walls down? 

“There wasn’t anyone else-” Bruce’s reply was cut off by the shrill siren that originated not far from Clark’s location. Bruce sucked in a breath, his voice tight when he continued, “You should see to that. I’ll go.” 

“I.. thank you for talking to me, Bruce. You know I keep this in the deepest confidence,” Clark said, taking his glasses off and slipping back into an alley. 

“I know,” Bruce hung up. 

As Clark hurriedly changed, one phrase kept repeating over and over again in his mind; There Was No One Else. 

What had Bruce meant by that?


End file.
